


Stigma

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: A Supplemental Star to Steer By [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, GFY, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Parallels, Verbal Abuse, abuse recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12891738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: Dogma thought he knew what he was signing up for. He was wrong.





	Stigma

**Author's Note:**

> It's come to the authors' attention that it might help to establish that in Star, a reservist is a GAR soldier who reserves the right to not host. In other words, if a Jedi takes them as a host, that's the death sentence.   
> (Thanks to seraf and MissTeaVee for the discussion! - Norcumi)

**Year 5 of the Separatist Uprising**  
**Umbara**

Nothing was at all like Dogma’s training.

Yes, yes, all the trainers and teachers had even said that, but Dogma was painfully aware of the fact that so many of his unit had at least their acclimation tour under their belts.

He was twenty years old, they didn’t come shiner than he did, and he was very aware of that.

They’d been on Umbara over two days, and they still hadn’t met with their new General. They’d come in under heavy fire, with the main body of the troops already in the midst of a major engagement several times larger than any action Dogma had seen in training. It had been loud, chaotic, and messy, with a lot more blood and mud than in any of the simulations.

They’d hooked up with the legion and held out until the Umbarans had fallen back. The Umbarans had withdrawn to fortify their capital, while the GAR trimmed up its own lines.

Dogma was pretty sure it was night by now, not that it made much difference here. There’d been a surprise attack, Umbarans supported by a bug-like giant clanker. The whole squad – _his_ squad – they were dead. So was almost everyone around him. He could hear the giant mechanical centipede _things_ rattle off down the line, where it sounded like they were being met by heavier guns and some light artillery.

He probably had some kind of concussion. He’d gotten a glancing blow from a clanker leg, and he’d gone flying before explosives had landed in the middle of his squad. Dogma had had enough air time to witness that, then he’d landed. His bucket had kept him alive, but it had cracked so badly he’d tossed it aside before he’d shuffled over to more... _complete_ bodies in hopes of finding other survivors.

The trench the command staff had set up in was closer than he thought it should be – he’d either gone flying further than he’d first thought, or he’d blanked out part of the walk over.

Neither option was good, and Dogma was well aware of it.

He almost stumbled over the bleeding General, who looked nearer to dead than not. The big Besalisk – Dogma couldn’t recall the host’s name, if he’d even ever heard it – was coughing up blood. His eyes were Jedi green, icy and burning as the General levered himself up with two arms. He was reaching out for a soldier near him, a clone captain that was moaning and shaking his head as he was starting to sit up.

The captain started as the Besalisk’s large hand fell on his shoulder. He half turned, grimacing as the motion stressed Force knew what injuries, only to jerk back when he saw who had him. “No!” the soldier yelped, rearing back enough that Dogma could make out the coarse weave of the neck of his blacks. He stumbled forward, because even in this shitty light and with a concussion he could recognize a reservist when all the cues were waved in his face.

The Besalisk’s bloody teeth bared in a snarl, but the large being collapsed, dead. The Jedi eeled his way out of the dead host, fins splaying large. Seeing the unhosted Jedi so vulnerable bothered Dogma on more levels than he could count. “Sir! Corporal Dogma reporting for duty!” It was inane, and he knew it, but it just spilled out.

The Jedi’s head came around, his fangs gaping in what Dogma could only tentatively identify as surprise. Dogma half-fell, half-sank to his knees as the Jedi arrowed his way over, quick as lightning. He ignored Dogma’s outstretched hand, instead zooming right up the arm.

Dogma might not have had any training as a host, but everyone knew barracks gossip and jokes, as well as the theory behind it. It was still a bit intimidating, those fangs lunging right towards his mouth, but Dogma tried very hard to hold still, and not fight the Jedi even when it hurt.

General Krell was fast and brutally efficient. There was a moment of disorientation, then Dogma found his body standing, stretching out a hand and _something_ pulsing through him that was new and thrilling and foreign. The paired saberstaffs on the Besalisk’s belt flew through the air to his hands, then General Krell snorted even as he attached one to Dogma’s belt, igniting the other. “Only one set of arms,” the General said. It...it was probably the concussion that made it sound like a sneer. “What a waste.”

It would be a month before Dogma took control of his own body again.

* * *

“You are _wasting_ a stupid amount– ”

“There are more than sufficient resources to take this planet.”

“ _Lives_ you fucking jawa shit, lives not resources!”

Dogma tried to wince further into the little corner of his mind that he visualized for himself so as to not get in the General’s way. He could feel General Krell’s mix of ire and disdain, even as Host 17 cursed at him as if the Jedi were some troublemaking cadet that had decided to make a training Sergeant’s life hell.

It didn’t help that through General Krell, Dogma could also feel General Kenobi. The High General was fuming in shocked horror in the background while his host was having a bitter, raging argument about tactics. Even worse, a lot of it was similar to the theories Dogma had floated past General Krell in the first few days, only to have such ridiculous notions shredded into bits. He might have always had good training sim scores, but Dogma _was_ far more inexperienced than General Krell, and in the field, experience was king.

Dogma didn’t understand what was causing Host 17’s venom, though. After all, the 212th had been able to swing in to successfully augment the 735th, and while the capital remained stubbornly defiant, they’d secured the rest of the planet.

Host 17 was saying the same things Dogma had, though with more detail and a _lot_ more vulgarity, and High General Kenobi wasn’t contradicting anything.

That...didn’t make any _sense._

Dogma felt it, the moment that General Krell’s temper snapped. It was always volatile, and the General’s preferred move was to go for his lightsaber. There was some flurry of emotion – righteous fury and disdain and dear _Force_ he was going for his _lightsaber_ and this was the _High General_.

It wasn’t thought, or intent. It was all instinct that, for the first time in a month, Dogma threw his weight at any kind of situation. “No!” he yelled, jerking his hand up and away from the weapon before he fully held it.

Dogma froze, shocked in equal measure that he was in charge of his body again – and that he had dared to go against his commanding officer. He mentally recoiled, pulling his presence back to its corner with speed that should have given him whiplash.

# _How DARE you,_ # General Krell snarled, fury welling up and starting to blaze through them. Suddenly Dogma was _not_ in charge, his arms crossing while a snarl swept across his face. # _You do not make the decisions here, CLONE, I–_ #

He was interrupted by the hum of an activating lightsaber, a bright blue length of plasma at General Krell’s throat. General Kenobi’s eyes were bright blue, and his voice was cold as he declared, “You will release your host now.”

General Krell’s sneer increased, not bothering to hide any of his disdain. “Or else _what_?”

A blaster muzzle dug into Krell’s neck from behind, cold enough to make Dogma’s skin break out into goosebumps. “Or else you take a damn _nap_ ,” a soldier growled, a deep rasp that Dogma could identify as Commander Cody. It was awful: he had no idea what to think of any of this, of having a High General on one side making demands (and his host being the most vulgar being Dogma had _ever_ met), while one of the premier soldiers in the entire army was on the other and prepared to shoot.

General Krell growled, and General Kenobi gestured, just a little bit. Dogma could feel the Force settle around his limbs, keeping them in place. “I am ordering you to leave your host, _now_ , Krell.”

Oh gods. No title, no rank – Dogma could only imagine what kind of trouble he and the General were in. He tried not to panic as the General snarled again, opening his mouth and sliding free.

It looked like it was Host 17 who caught the General, and Dogma staggered back. He wasn’t sure why he was having such a visceral reaction, why he wanted to retch and cry and who the hells knew what else. All he knew what that there was a brother’s arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright even as Dogma tried to maintain what little was left of his dignity.

Failure as a soldier, failure as a host – he’d be lucky if they didn’t drum him out of the army within a rotation.

* * *

**Year 5 of the Separatist Uprising**  
**Coruscant**

Coruscant was nothing quite like what Dogma had imagined it would be. It was– it was large. Enormous, really. To be fair, he wasn’t paying much attention, because between the too big, too bright surroundings and the fact that he was going to speak with the Jedi High Council – well, it was all a bit much.

Commander Cody remained with him for most of the trip, along with Medic Kix and several others from the 735th. It was Commander Cody and Host 17 who stood by his side when he spoke before the Council. Sometimes, the questions were directed at them, and every now and again General Kenobi spoke.

Most of the questions were for Dogma.

After the debrief – or whatever it was. Inquest? Trial? Court martial? – most of the Jedi filed out of the room, except for General Yoda and Host 99.

It was 99 who approached them, 99 who looked at Dogma with compassion that made him feel warm and cold and as fragile as spun glass all at the same time. It made just as much sense as anything else did lately.

“Dogma,” 99 said, smiling his lopsided smile. “You’ve been very brave, and I know this has been hard. Is there anything you’d like to know, or ask for? If you want to leave the GAR-”

“No!” Dogma blurted out, his skin flushing cold as all the details of the room went sharp but distant. “I– No, sir. Please, don’t discharge me. I– I can do whatever you need me to. I can-”

“Dogma,” Commander Cody interjected, putting a steadying hand on Dogma’s shoulder.

Dogma could feel the tears gather and viciously fought them back. He might not be a good soldier, but that at least was a battle he _would_ win.

“If you want to stay, you stay,” Cody said, finality in his voice.

17 nodded. “If you want to transfer to the 212th, Kenobi and I _both_ agree that we can use a soldier like you.”

Dogma nodded, appreciating the gesture even though he had no idea what to do with it.

* * *

“Host Dogma?”

The mess hall took on the sharp definition of battle, and Dogma felt like something hot was clogging up his throat. He turned anyways, facing the brother standing patiently behind him. “Yes?”

“Paperwork from the Council,” the soldier declared, holding out a thin folder of flimsi. “Your eyes only.”

“Thank you.” Dogma took the folder, managing not to flinch as the soldier saluted and hustled off. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, folder in hand, before it registered that someone was saying his name.

_Just_ his name. He looked up, and it was a combination of relief and sorrow that it was Kix. Only now, instead of the 735’s ochre, Kix’s armor designs were in the rich blue of the 501st. Same as the brother standing a little behind Kix, shaved head and an offset tattoo of the Republic roundel. That was Kix’s boyfriend, wasn’t it? Husband? Something. Dogma had seen holos once, when Krell had debriefed the head medic in his quarters.

“Dogma?” Kix repeated. “Are you all right?” From the look on Kix’s face, he sure didn’t think so.

“Of course,” Dogma answered automatically, nodding towards the folder he held. “I just– from the Council. It’s....” He trailed off, not sure what he was trying to say. Overwhelming? Too much? Not _right_?

“Bad news?” Kix’s friend asked, quiet sympathy making Dogma squirm.

“I don’t know, I haven’t read it yet,” he said, trying to cover his discomfort.

Kix kept looking at him. “I’d like to run a quick checkup,” Kix finally said. “Come with us to Medical?”

That made no sense whatsoever. “But...you’re 501st now.”

Kix had a gentle smile that didn’t really reach his eyes. “I’m still the medical officer who’s worked with you most recently. Come on.”

It was the way he nodded towards the door that did it. Dogma didn’t think he was staring at the neck of Kix’s blacks, but–

Something about the weave, the coarser material that he knew would show up a vibrant shade of orange to Jedi eyes–

He nodded, and followed.

* * *

Kix didn’t ask anything but medical questions. It was strange how that didn’t help. The folder of flimsi remained on the examining table next to him, almost seemed to glare at him. Kix finally stepped back, smiling at Dogma. “Well, you’re all clear. Ready to go back into the field?”

“I’m– I’m not.” Kix’s look was both sympathetic and questioning. Dogma had to work to unclench his jaw, which was also odd. When had he done that? “I’m not...clear.” Gods, Kix _had_ to understand. He was a reservist. He’d been a reservist the entire time Dogma had known him. As head medic for the 735th, Kix had been the one to see to General Krell’s welfare after battle. He was as close to a friend as Dogma had anymore.

“I’m not ready,” he said, quiet and so ashamed. It would probably disqualify him for service, but– he just _couldn’t._ “I don’t– I don’t want to host again.” He hadn’t even _earned_ his rank, not beyond Corporal, and it was just all a mess.

Kix just nodded. “And you want to stay GAR, right?”

Gods, he should not be at this kind of a loss. “It’s all I know how to do. Being a soldier.” Dogma shook his head. The the thought of trying something new that he had little to no training for was rather terrifying, but if he stayed in the army they’d.... “I have no idea what that would mean. I can’t– I know the 735th is getting a new General. They’ll– they’ll already have a host, and I–” The words stuck in his throat. _I want to be a reservist_. Force, but he wanted that so badly, but he _couldn’t._ He wasn’t sure when he’d wrapped his arms around his midriff in a protective half-hug. “So what, I’ll get assigned to some random battalion? General Kenobi offered me a place in the 212, but....” He trailed off, not sure how to put it. General Kenobi was the reason this had all gone sideways in the first place. Oh, not as a matter of blame! Just...Dogma wasn’t sure he could look that man in the eyes, as _his_ general, and not see the judgement of that monumental failure of his.

Even if a part of him screamed loud and long that Kenobi wouldn’t judge him like that. Honestly, that just made it worse.

Kix hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Do you want to join the 501st?”

“W-what?”

“The 501st. Do you want to join?”

Dogma stared. He couldn’t be hearing what he thought he was hearing. “B-but- but the 501st is the best of the best. I’d _never_ qualify to– Definitely not _now_.”

Kix didn’t roll his eyes, or laugh off the joke. He looked serious as he leaned in a little. “Forget about rankings and all that bantha shit. Do you want to join? You know at least a few of us here, and I _swear_ on Jango’s pyre that Skywalker will be fine with it.”

He looked away, not realizing he’d tugged on the neck of his blacks until the movement was more than half done. “I don't- Even if I never want to host again?”

Kix’s growl was accompanied by a fierce expression that was reassuring to see. “I will _personally_ feed my blaster to the first being to give you grief over it.”

Dogma had honestly never met anything as terrifying as a medic with a mission. It was enough to sway him somewhat. It would be...nice, really. General Kenobi’s offer was kind, but there was history there, between them, and the 501st didn’t have anything like that. Just someone who knew what had happened.

...in excruciating detail. Dogma glanced up. “If this is pity for– ”

The medic was already shaking his head. “You stood up to a _Jedi_ who’d been beating you down for a _month_. _No_ , this isn’t pity. We can use that kind of strength in the 501st.”

“....I don’t feel very strong,” Dogma managed in a wobbly voice not much louder than a whisper. He stared down at the floor, wanting to get lost in the dull white finish there that was nothing like the darkness and shadows that had been everywhere for far too long.

“Hey,” Kix said, gentle where he’d been fierce. He waited until Dogma looked up at him. “That’s what your brothers are there for, right?”

He couldn’t stop a watery huff of laughter. “Let- let me think about it, okay?”

“Of course,” Kix said with a gentle smile and a firm nod.

* * *

Kix was sorting through various supply requisition forms when there was a quiet, awkward knock on the doorframe. He glanced up, then shoved the flimsi onto the desk when he saw who it was. “Dogma! Come on in.” It’d been several days since they’d last talked, and not even his experienced eye could tell if Dogma was doing better or worse for the down time they’d been given. He at least seemed to be a little bit more over the shock of...well. Everything. “What’s going on?”

He wasn’t expecting Dogma to take a deep breath, then square his shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Why are you a reservist?” Another deep breath. “What made you decide to – to do that? I mean, we’re the Jedi’s army. _For_ the Jedi.”

Trust Dogma to ask difficult questions. Kix leaned back, letting the chair tilt enough that he didn’t feel like he was getting the full brunt of Dogma’s stare. “Well, it’s pretty explicit in the Accords that we – the army – are in the Jedi’s care, not just at their disposal. They take care of us, we take care of them. It’s supposed to be that give and take.” He paused to try to find the right angle to explain his own experiences without sharing details too harsh for Dogma’s recent trauma. He didn’t need the poor kid blaming himself for even more things beyond his control.

“I didn’t aim for the position of head medic in the company,” he finally said. “Not exactly a rank you get straight from decanting. My acclimation stint was normal, and pretty quiet. We dealt with a lot of slavers in Hutt-space – they were active in one of their insurrection attempts. Post-freeze, though.... You know how field promotions were with Krell. And it didn’t take much to see how Krell used his soldiers. Weapons. Tools. Not men. I know about needing to get distance, to look at failing organs and limbs that need to be amputated, all while never looking too long at the face above them, but – at the end of the day, you _have_ to be able to see the brother involved. If we’re all disposable, then what the hells are we doing? I – I’m sorry. I’d hoped I could be some kind of influence on the General. Try to keep him grounded, remind him of our humanity.” He snorted, disgusted with his own naiveté. “I also knew there was no way in any hell I wanted to be closer to that chain of command than I had to be.”

Kix dragged himself from his memories, glancing up to see Dogma still had that intent stare. “I couldn’t really say what made up my mind. I just remember a long shift after some battle in the first few months of the war. I went back to the barracks, walked right past my bunk, and found the nearest terminal to start the process.” He wasn’t sure why Dogma’s face crumpled a little at that, so he pushed himself to say more than he normally would.

“It was...it was a message of sorts, I guess. About limits and boundaries.”

Dogma nodded, studying his hands for long enough that Kix had to wonder if he’d been too honest.

After far too long, Dogma’s breathing hitched. “I– That makes sense,” he whispered, still not looking up. “And. The mind healers. They keep giving me reassurances that– I mean– ” His hands clenched into fists as his voice went level, controlled in a way that indicated unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“That’s fine,” Dogma said. “I know it’s fine, the mind healers go out of their way to remind me it’s fine, and I certainly wouldn’t judge you for that. But I – but I’m _not_ fine. I’m...angry. Frustrated with myself. I should be fine. None of it was that bad and I should just return to duty, but– ” He broke off with a headshake, giving Kix a confused, beseeching look.

Force, but there were times when he was reminded just why he specialized as a field medic instead of a mind healer. Kix made sure his hands were visible as he leaned forward, to show that he was unarmed and not about to attack. “Dogma, we’re in the fifth year of a war that is nothing like the galaxy has seen since the Accords. None of us are fine. Even if most of us were? What happened to you was _not_ in any way fine.” Before Dogma could do more than start the spasmodic headshake Kix was more used to seeing on shocky brothers in denial, he was holding up his hands, gesturing for Dogma to stop.

“You volunteered for a position without any training or opportunity to catch your breath or reconsider. Your trust and good faith in– in the entire system was abused. Anyone who doesn’t think that was ‘bad’ didn’t put any thought into the matter at all.”

Dogma kept shaking his head. “I want to be a reservist, but that’s– I shouldn’t be that _weak_ , but no matter how hard I try– ”

That made for another reason that Kix should never be left alone with Krell. Only one of them would walk away, and that was the one with natural opposable thumbs. “Why does surviving a situation you should never have been put in make you weak?”

Dogma stared at him blankly for longer than he really liked. “We’re supposed to be ready for– ”

“Is it statistically possible to be ready for anything? Able to handle everything? _Particularly_ without support?” He kept getting the wounded nerf eyes, the _lost_ look that made his every instinct want to go _looking_ for Krell. “So how about this. You don’t seem to be sure about what you want. You’ve tried being with the 735th, and you tried not being a reservist. How about you try the 501 for a month, and try being a reservist for that month too? See how you feel about one or both of those after you’ve had some time to see what it’s like.”

Kix felt like he was holding his breath, that Coruscant had stopped spinning. Then thank the Force, Dogma gave a small, jerky nod of agreement.

“I don’t know what that’ll be like,” Dogma whispered.

Kix made sure his smile was a kind as he could make it. “How about we find out?”

* * *

**Year 7 of the Separatist Uprising**  
_**The Resolute** _

“Anything else?” Anakin asked, scrubbing his face. They’d been doing the debrief for what felt like hours, but probably wasn’t more than just one. He, Fives, and Rex had to go over the stupidest mundane details regularly. It was annoying, but that was what kept the army running.

Rex hesitated, then made a face. “Kix wanted me to pass along an incident he witnessed earlier. Some of the new batch of shinies were stuck in Medical when Dogma went to visit one of his squad.”

Anakin frowned, and he could feel Fives’ anger. “What happened, and how bad?”

“Well, thankfully Twist was still unconscious, so he didn’t hear them speculating about his sergeant’s loyalties.”

“For Force’s sake,” Fives snarled, “have they spent more than seven seconds talking to Dogma?”

“Clearly not,” Anakin said, shaking their head. Dogma might have improved since he’d joined the 501st, but he was still wound tighter than most brothers. “So, no one took an unexpected walk into a wall. Dogma ignored it, I assume?”

“Of course.” Rex had an interesting skill where he managed to convey rolling his eyes without actually doing so. Fives had been madly jealous of that for years, but neither he nor Anakin had been able to reproduce the effect. “I’ve already passed along word that group leaders need to make sure the shinies know the culture, and that we don’t hold with that sort of thing in the 501st.”

# _Shouldn’t be like that anywhere,_ # Fives grumbled.

# _Agreed, but people are gonna be people, and there’s a certain point where you can’t stop them from being stupid or prejudiced._ #

“They’re lucky they didn’t try that with the 212,” Fives said aloud in response.

Rex gave him a questioning look, earning a nasty grin. “Last time they had that little problem, Kenobi finally let 17 handle it _personally_.”

Rex whistled. “Did he strip the finish off the hull at the same time?”

Fives might not have been able to do a subliminal eyeroll, but he had a perfectly casual shrug nailed. “Dunno, I only heard about it second hand. Would give my right arm for a recording, though.”

Rex paused, then gave them a flat look while Anakin snickered internally. Fives’ beatific smile was starting to waver as Rex held the glare a few beats longer than might be called for. At long last the captain cleared his throat. “Moving _on_ from Sergeant Dogma and his squad....”

* * *

**Year 7 of the Separatist Uprising**  
**CIS Contested Territory**

“Keeping up all right, Twist?” Dogma shouted, popping around the corner long enough to take out another few droids before falling back to cover again. Across the hall, Twist mirrored his actions. By the time Twist was ducking back under cover, Dogma had a grenade primed and ready to go.

“Doin’ good, Sergeant,” Twist said when the last clattering of raining droids stopped.

Dogma nodded to him, then waved the rest of the squad on to their next position. It was a routine battle, all by the book and comfortingly familiar. Twist wasn’t showing any signs of his injuries from their last major engagement, and Brass was integrating with the team well. Their shiny was a good kid, if pretty quiet.

The power flickered off with a whine, emergency lighting sending everything into a dim, green glow. Dogma twitched in spite of himself in the moment before his HUD compensated for low-light conditions, and as always he had to berate himself for an instant.

Closer to three years than two, and he still had that immediate twitch when he wasn’t prepared for poor lighting. Annoying, but the mind-healers seemed to think it was okay. Kix had cleared him for duty, the few times he’d talked to the medic about it, and that meant a lot.

The sick lurch to his stomach smoothed out as they cleared the rest of the building, the assorted squads regrouping in the factory’s main loading zone. General Skywalker had set up Command there, and as always it was a warm, quiet joy when he gave a succinct report and got that distracted nod of approval.

He was 501st, proven to himself and his General – and his squad. There was no extra scrutiny to make sure Dogma had it together, no gentle handling because he was weak, no distance because of his status as a reservist.

That trust buoyed him every time his stomach lurched at sudden reminders of Umbara. Of Krell.

He was still proud of that accomplishment, of how it was never ‘General’ anymore. Just Krell. A lot had changed – _he_ had changed – since those early uncertain days just after Krell’s trial. Not just Dogma’s status as a veteran and now sergeant, but his place as a part of the 501st, as Kix’s friend.

The trauma of it all had left plenty of scars, but he’d been happy to sit down with Kix and share a drink when the man swapped off of reservist status. In a strange way, that had helped, even. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to change his own, might never want to, but everyone he knew was so accepting of it that it wasn’t even an issue.

He still had the folder of flimsi that he’d carried, when he’d first talked with Kix about his fate. It remained classified, so he wasn’t about to be so crass as to frame and hang on his wall, but it was nonetheless sometimes satisfying to pull it out and read the words. Remind himself that Krell was being sent _very_ far from the front lines, from anything, really – and he would never be allowed to take a host again. The Jedi Council had hit Krell with every offense they could prove, and Dogma had had the feeling that none of them would be particularly sad if he’d wanted to tip Krell’s sentence from life without parole to death.

Dogma had considered pressing charges. He'd considered it long and hard, after he reached a place where he could face his own hurt and anger. He'd talked it over with Kix and the mindhealers, but in the end, he didn't want to give Krell a larger part of his soul than the disgraced Jedi already had, and so he'd decided to walk away. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was his choice, and that was the best feeling of all.


End file.
